


The Smallest Ember Lights the Brightest Fires

by Linguini



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Huddling For Warmth, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: “In Antiva,” she says, ducking under a dripping branch, “It’s not autumn unless the mud is up to your ankles.”Josephine, Cassandra, an inn and a flood.





	The Smallest Ember Lights the Brightest Fires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipplesOfAqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipplesOfAqua/gifts).



The smile on Ambassador Montilyet’s face is the closest thing to a grin that Cassandra has ever seen on her.  She seems not to mind the wet hair plastered to her temples, nor the squelching of mud from beneath the horses’ hooves.  The fabric of her dress must be heavy with rain and muck, clinging to her uncomfortably, but the Ambassador shows no discomfort at all.

Cassandra must let something of her considerations show on her face, for she’s gifted with the Ambassador’s twinkling eyes the next time she looks at her.

“In Antiva,” she says, ducking under a dripping branch, “It’s not autumn unless the mud is up to your ankles.”  

The back of Cassandra’s neck burns with embarrassment at having been caught staring.  She turns her head away, and in the spirit of fair play offers, “Autumn in Nevarra was dry and dusty.”  

Whatever comment the Ambassador might have made is lost to the rumble of thunder overhead and the heavy patter of rain.  For a long while, they’re silent, maneuvering their horses carefully around puddles in the road that are closer to lakes than anything else.  Once, Cassandra’s horse missteps and falters, and she’s thrown into the muck. it’s not the first time she’s been unseated, and she falls easily, with only a few bruises to show for the trouble.  With a grumble, she guides the horse by the reins back to drier ground and re-mounts it. The Ambassador very carefully doesn’t look her way until they’re several yards on.

They ride in silence, the rain around them heavy enough to make conversation impossible, until they arrive at a small village, marked on Cassandra’s map in Leliana’s hand .  The rain has run the symbols enough that it’s merely a smudge of ink, with the symbol that should denote the village’s allegiance unreadable.  Still, there is no choice but to take the chance. Cassandra can keep watch if she needs to.

In truth, it’s less a village than a collection of huts huddled around the obligatory pub and chantry (the former quite noticeably bigger than the latter).  The Ambassador hands her reins to Cassandra and dismounts from her horse gracefully, striding towards the door without an ounce of hesitation. Unaccountably, considering the Ambassador’s history and capabilities, Cassandra feels discomfort settle in her chest at the prospect of her being alone in an unfamiliar place.  She hurries the horses to the stables and manages to settle them in in record time.

By the time she finds the Ambassador, stood in front of the bar, she knows enough about the situation at hand to be composing a letter to the Herald in her head.

“There is no leaving the village,” the Ambassador says as she turns towards Cassandra.  “Ser Morgan informs me that the river has burst its banks, and is moving too fast to cross in any case.  But there is a room for us, though the kitchen is no longer open.”

Cassandra nods, shifting their saddlebags on her shoulder.  “We have rations in our bags,” she reminds the Ambassador. 

Josephine gives the man a smile and a silver piece.  “For the room, and the candle.”

The man’s face changes not one bit, but he nods, and turns to call a small boy to his side.  With a wave of her hand, Cassandra gestures the Ambassador ahead of her on the stairs. With the crowd of people below, she’s not expecting any sort of luxury, and so is not surprised when the room consists of a single small bed that takes up the majority of the space and a wobbly table with a cracked and chipped bowl for washing.  What she is  _ not  _ expecting, however, is for there to be so little room left that she cannot even spread out her bedroll.

If the Ambassador is put off by the lack of luxury, she doesn’t show it.  Instead, she sets the borrowed candle on the side table and reaches to pluck her own saddlebag off Cassandra’s shoulder kneeling to undo the fastenings.  “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of something dry to wear,” she says wryly.

Carefully, Cassandra steps around her to the last bit of free space.  “No.” She’s not wrong. Every scrap of clothing and bit of gear in her bag is sopping wet, including the book at the bottom.  Cassandra rises for the bowl and sets it between them as the Ambassador drags out various items of clothing to wring out. A flash of lace catches Cassandra’s attention and she ducks her head, cheeks flaming at the intrusion of the Ambassador’s privacy.  She’s been in smaller spaces with more people, and has never been shy about sharing rooms, but something about the Ambassador has her feeling as if she’s overstepped a bound somewhere.

After a quick dinner of hardtack and dried fruit, Cassandra sets about removing her armor, which takes much longer than it should. Her fingers tremble with cold and the leather buckles and straps have that slick feeling of too-wet leather.  By the time she’s stripped it down, she’s shivering in earnest. The room is too small for a fire, so she and the Ambassador spread their things on the floor as best they can.

Without a word, the Ambassador climbs under the covers, scooting over as far as possible and turning on her side.  She holds the blankets up in invitation. “Get in.”

Cassandra turns and stares for a moment, then shakes her head, ruffling the rain out of her hair.  “I am fine. I can sleep here on the floor.” 

It’s patently untrue, and the Ambassador needs only raise an eyebrow to chide Cassandra for her foolishness.  But she does not directly disagree with her, saying only “I’m cold, and you’re letting all the heat out. Get in.”

Cassandra sets her shoulders and grits her teeth mentally, climbing onto the bed carefully.  She keeps herself as far away from the Ambassador’s body as she can, still unwilling to make her uncomfortable, or to make the situation any more difficult for her than it already must be.

There is a soft huff of breath as the Ambassador blows out the candle.  In the darkness, Cassandra can see only the vaguest outline of her beneath the blanket, which makes remaining on her own side an exercise of control.

Eventually, the Ambassador must tire of Cassandra’s attempts to settle. “Cassandra,” she says, voice warm in the darkness.  “You are cold and wet. I am cold and wet. There is no fire. There is only this one blanket. You, then, are my only source of heat, and you are denying me.  Surely you can see the sense in sharing what little warmth our bodies possess, rather than spending the night shivering in misery.” Before Cassandra can protest, she sighs and burrows further under the blankets.  “You know I’m right. Where is the sense in arguing?”

For a long moment, Cassandra can say nothing.  Instead, she shifts closer, contorting awkwardly to find a place to rest her hand, her arm, her feet, her knees that doesn’t cause the Ambassador discomfort.  She must move too much, though, for the Ambassador sighs (with the tiniest hint of fondness, Cassandra imagines) and snags her wrist between her warm fingers. “Stop fidgeting,” she says, and sets Cassandra’s arm over her supple waist.  Her legs fit between Cassandra’s own and her arm settles on Cassandra’s ribs.

“Are you in pain?” the Ambassador asks. 

“No,” Cassandra assures her, then shifts slightly so her other arm rests beneath her head.  “I am fine.”

“Good.”  The Ambassador shifts slightly closer.  “You’ll tell me if you’re not fine.” It’s not a request.

Cassandra cannot promise this, and so does not answer.  Instead, she says, “In the morning, I shall scout the river.  There must be somewhere to cross.”

The Ambassador must smile, for Cassandra is suddenly aware of the twitch of lips against her collarbone.  “Yes, of course. I will write to the Herald about our delay.”

With an approving grunt, Cassandra settles, feeling the Ambassador’s body begin to tremble in earnest with the ferocity that marks the warming from a deadly cold.  She drapes her arm more securely over the Ambassador’s waist and pulls her as close as she can in an attempt to share more of her heat.

They lay there for a long while, until the Ambassador’s shivers die down and the frostbite pain in Cassandra’s toes begins to lessen.  

“Good night, Cassandra.”  The Ambassador’s breath gusts against her collarbone, though she is too tired to think much of it.

“Good night, Ambassador.”

A small huff, and the Ambassador is smiling again.  “You are in my bed, Cassandra. Surely you can call me Josephine now?”

Again, Cassandra can feel the back of her neck burning--a situation that occurs more with this woman than anyone else in recent experience.  “Yes. Alright. Good night, Ambassador Josephine.”

Josephine giggles and pinches the back of Cassandra’s shoulder.  “Good night.”

Another small shift of the body against hers sends an ember of something flaring just beneath Cassandra’s ribs.  Something small and quiet and sharp. Something Cassandra hasn’t felt in ages, and certainly not ever for another woman.

She closes her eyes, breathes in.  Breathes out. Breathes in.

The wind howls, the rain pounds at the window, and amidst it all, Cassandra dreams.

  
  
  



End file.
